


i'm a dead one, you're a true believer

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Marineford, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, That one's pretty extreme but not super conscious so uh. be careful., Uh. The comfort isn't super heavy. Soz. This one just hurts., Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: "Ah, I think I'm sick-yoi." Marco looks up at Shanks from under half-lidded eyes and the pinning weight of an easy smile, and Shanks lets his vision roll over the other splayed supine over his bed, limbs loose and sloppy in their placement, red sheets rumpled in dark topographical ridges from his frantic bouts of twisting.(Can you hear me? I can feel your fever.)(Staring at the moon, staring at the moon...)
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, It's platonic but it can be read as romantic if you want eet to be.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	i'm a dead one, you're a true believer

**Author's Note:**

> CW for emetophobia! Please let me know if I missed any other CWs.

"Ah, I think I'm sick-yoi." Marco looks up at Shanks from under half-lidded eyes and the pinning weight of an easy smile, and Shanks lets his vision roll over the other splayed supine over his bed, limbs loose and sloppy in their placement, red sheets rumpled in dark topographical ridges from his frantic bouts of twisting. It's not an entirely unfamiliar sight to the captain, but his gaze is clouded, and he's uncharacteristically pale, especially so against the rich tone of the sheets, legs swallowed by light swaths of blue cotton, only the dark icon of his father's mark against his chest a testament to his vivacity. 

He jerks up, violence in the curl of his form, the knobby arch of his back, and he rolls his neck to hang his head over the edge of the mattress. Shanks doesn't move, simply curls his fingers white knuckled around the neck of the vintage in his hand, listens to the sound of liquid hitting hardwood and Marco's hoarse, pained gasping between every retch. Ever mindful, he keeps his head from Shanks' field of vision, even as he leans to pin avoirdupois onto his shoulders, hands gripping firmly into his spasming stomach and hips lifted. The yonkou pops the cork with his thumb, deceptively nonchalant, and the roar of phoenix fire overwhelms the gentle _tunk-tunk-tunk_ of the stopper bouncing along the floor. Takes a swig when he sees a flash of skin, a flash of _meat_ , white fat and yellow muscle, as Marco's hands go wicked with lethality, keratin shining with robustness even as they go slick and sanguine with his clenching. Strands of muscle hang mindlessly, thin and dark and sinewy, between curled fingers. 

Through the filter of flickering blue, Shanks grimaces when he sees the tell-tale gleam of alabaster (slicked with a sheen of candy pink from the thorough coating of _red, red, red_ and the captain absently ponders his color scheme as his own stomach rolls), Marco's talons sinking to find bone as he shakes with the emptying of his guts, full lips slick and burning with yellow-green. He swallows the mouthful of wine, tasting only sour air and rotten fruit, and sets the bottle on his desk with a shaking hand, casting an olive light over the array of documents scattered on its worn surface, the notches along the edge of the bottle finding a home in the grooves of the table. He stares for too long. Tries not to think of the way the doctor sounds like he's screaming without air, crying out for his brother in punctuated gasps, flaying his consciousness with the expulsion of bitter bile and the sensation of pain until he falls over, sinking into the soft reprieve of Shanks' sea-worn sheets, made heavy and dense with the soaking of his blood. A feathered quill--something the yonkou would never use, can't quite recall the origin of--rolls over the wood, and Marco's gut spasms dry as he wipes his mouth, chest heaving and blood drying tacky against his skin and where it'd soaked through his pants. 

"Tomorrow," the word does not whistle through his teeth, rather is pushed, firm and warm, a promise and the strength of a smile behind it as Shanks moves to fill the dip in the bed created by Marco's weight. _I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t suppose I’d have had a reason to, though, huh?_ He settles as if he doesn't feel the pool of drying blood or smell heady sulfur from the tenacity of the blonde's grip where he'd split through bone, the tender feeling of soft marrow nearly enough to make him scream (oh, he would, if he had something left with which to scream); Marco again blinks up at him vacantly, lashes fraught with glittering drops of subconscious anguish, opens his mouth as if to speak, and closes it again. He nods, eyes crinkling, and turns his back to the redhead, burying his ear deep into the plush of a pillow at the head of the bed. 

Shanks' arm moves, almost of its own accord, to cradle the doctor, hovering inches from clammy, quivering skin, before dropping back to his side. _I am here and it is enough._ The thought is solemn, almost reverent, out of place in his brain's typical frantic, merry scramblings in its finality. _I can't give him what I don't have._ He sighs deep just to feel the firm pull of his diaphragm, the chasm of his thoracic cavity opening, feeling around the cold knot of mourning and obligation settling there like a ball of ice. Whitebeard was a good man. Marco pants as if the exhaustion of the battle hadn’t quite dissipated, and the yonkou wonders if it ever quite will. 

“You’re strong.” These are whistled, breathless and incidental as the redhead curls into the sheets and watches Marco’s pain spread over the white baft of his shirt, soaking in and pooling, the shirt made irreparably crimson at the edges. Marco goes rigid, arms drawn back and knees pulling to his chest. _Anger._ _What DO YOU KNOW O-_

“Sorry,” again, a slip, Shanks’ tongue loose with grief, seeking only to appease the man before him, not desiring to lurch into the gap left by his loss with a careless hand, to touch where he’d split his skin to the bone and left himself open and twitching for the other man, choking on mourning with scored lungs. The blonde unwinds like a clock, _tick-tick-tick_ , muscle softening deliberately as he curbs the misdirected anger, spikes of bone poking through the writhing mass of meat he’s cut himself into. Shanks goes tight, cold, regretful with laying another burden on the man. 

They don’t sleep. He watches the phoenix smolder and rebuild in grotesque, distressed heaving, restrained convulsions. He smiles again by morning, cloth of his pants gone stiff and brown from dried blood, the yonkou’s shirt fit to complete a matching set, his sheets stained deep and the varnish of his floor lifted by the acid of bile. Shanks drops his head to brush blonde hair away from his creased forehead, presses a closed-mouth kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The soft unfurling of tissue under the redhead’s mouth makes him smile, and he lays his hand over the doctor’s chest to feel him sigh, breath hitching. His stomach growls.

“Careful-yoi. Might be contagious.” Auburn hair tickles against Marco’s scruff as Shanks gives a curt nod and smiles into his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about Marco being sick lately, haha. You've really gotta fuck him up to get this dude clammy, won the superpower lottery for SURE. Gotta take him out Raskolnikov-style with the guilt sweats and shit was my guess. I Am So Sorry Marco I Love You So Much I Do Not Want You To Hurt. 
> 
> Here's the frantic Discord message I sent a couple days before I typed this:
>
>> Thinks about Marco after Marineford and him turning to Shanks and going "Oh, I think I'm sick." before rolling over and throwing up his guts laaawl. Shanks just watching him dig his own talons into his sides and bleeding blue all over his damn captain's quarters while Shanks is just standing there holding a bottle of nice whiskey and kinda 0_0 because he has Wow He Has Never Seen Marco Like This but like Oh Why Would He Have. Thinkin' about them sharing a bed and Marco rolling over and hiccuping and shivering something awful and he just like. lays there. puts his hand on his shoulder. lets him shake. Thinks about the way Marco wakes up in the morning to look at ((his)) crew with these hardset eyes even after he's lost dozens of shirt to soaking them in his blood night by night uwuagygg. 
> 
> Please leave a comment or something, I really appreciate and enjoy reading through all reviews and stuff.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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